


Knocked on his Ass

by Boxstorm



Category: The Avengers - Ambiguous Fandom
Genre: 5+1 Things, Alternate Universe - Bar/Pub, M/M, kind of
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-04-23
Updated: 2014-04-23
Packaged: 2018-01-20 11:50:27
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,944
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1509446
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Boxstorm/pseuds/Boxstorm
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Five times Clint knocked Phil on his ass, literally (and the one time he did it figuratively)</p>
            </blockquote>





	Knocked on his Ass

1.

It is far, far too late for Phil to just be heading out from the office now. Everyone else left nearly six hours ago, going home to families and bad tv and sleep, but Phil has always been the overachieving type, and there was a specific place he wanted to get to before leaving for the weekend. Still, he thinks as he packs up some extra paperwork into his briefcase, he really shouldn’t be that guy who stays in the office until 11pm on a Friday night.

He runs the numbers again as he makes his way home, sitting distractedly on the subway, and meandering down the sidewalk towards his apartment building. He’s so lost in the details that he’s almost knocked clean off his feet by the swinging fist of a very large, very drunk man.

“Holy shit, sorry man!” a voice yells, as Phil steps back with a start, blinking stupidly in the flood of light from the bar’s neon sign.

“Yeah you should be, asshole!” the drunk man yells, struggling in the grip of a short but stocky man.

“Yeah not you.” The man says, shaking his head, “You okay, suit?”

It takes Phil a moment to realize the man is talking to him.

“Uh.” He says, intelligently, “Yeah. Yeah I’m fine.” Because he is. Even if he’s sort of half-leaning against the brick wall to his left, and he has absolutely no idea what’s going on.

“Good.” The short man says, “Now get the hell out of here!”

It takes Phil a moment to realize that that last was directed at the drunk man, and not himself. The short man all but throws the drunk man down the sidewalk, making sure that he continues down the street and around the corner before turning back to Phil. The short man gives a quick shudder, looking disgustedly at his hands.

“That dude was _sticky_.” He says, giving an aborted clench of his fists as he grimaces exaggeratedly at Phil.

“Oh.” Phil says, because it’s now 11:45 and he’s been awake since 7am and this man is really very attractive in a grungy, unattractive way.

“You sure you’re okay?” the man asks, tipping his head slightly to the side as though that will help him get a better look at Phil, who belatedly realizes that he’s still slumped against the side of the building.

“Look, let me take you inside. We’ve got a first aid kit behind the bar?” he says it like a question, “Or, I mean least I can do is buy you a drink.”

“I’m… I’m fine.” Phil answers, because he is fine. Just tired. Really… really tired.

The man gives him another look, like he’s already decided that Phil is lying, but he’s trying to decide whether to pretend to believe him.

Phil pushes awkwardly off of the wall, brushes his jacket off (that “dude” had been _sticky_ ), and gives the man a curt nod before continuing on his way. He swears he can feel the man’s eyes on him until he turns the corner, but he refuses to turn back to look.

 

2.

It’s only 10pm this time when Phil finally packs up his things, grabs his travel mug of tragically cold coffee, and heads out of the office. He’s almost home when disaster strikes again. Something slams into his chest, knocking him entirely off balance and sending him flailing.

“Oh fuck, man!”

Phil has the sudden realization that, instead of walking towards his apartment, he’s now lying on his back on the sidewalk. He looks around, bewildered, and his eyes land on a man who he’s sure is somehow familiar but he can’t quite place.

The man kneels down in response to Phil’s lack of answer to what was apparently a question. The man reaches out tentatively, and Phil takes the moment to watch the man’s arm muscles because _damn_. Phil blinks. It’s not that he’s never appreciated a man’s arms before. They’re usually his favourite part of a man, barring certain, specific organs, but he’s still not quite sure how he ended up on the sidewalk and that should probably take precedence to oogling his rescuer. Even if he does have probably the best arms Phil has ever seen.

Except that the man is explaining what happened, and apparently he is also Phil’s attacker. Phil can see the garbage bag that had hit him sitting on the ground behind the man.

“I guess I swung it too hard.” The man is explaining, sheepishly, as he presses his fingertips to the back of Phil’s head. “How do you feel?”

“Turned on?” Phil answers, truthfully. And maybe he _had_ hit his head when he fell.

“Right.” The man chuckles, ”I’m bringing you inside, we’ll call you an ambulance.”

Phil lets himself be dragged to his feet, leans probably more heavily than he needs to against the man’s solid chest but he’s probably _concussed_ so he’s pretty sure that’s okay. The man chuckles again, low and warm and Phil has the sudden horrifying realization that he may have said that out loud.

“Don’t sweat it, man.” The man says, half-carrying Phil into the bar and depositing him into a chair at a nearby table.

“Can you watch this dude, Tash?” he calls to someone, “I beaned him pretty good with a garbage bag.”

A small redheaded woman slips into the seat across from Phil, raising a slender eyebrow at the man, who shrugs sheepishly.

“Just gonna go call him an ambulance. Yell if he pukes.”

The woman, Tash, nods, giving Phil a small smile, as the man saunters behind the bar to find a phone.

Phil has a silent staring match with Tash while they wait for the man to come back. She raises her eyebrow again. He vomits on the table.

“Clint?” Tash calls, voice oddly calm for someone covered in another person’s vomit.

“Aww, dude…” Clint says, making his way back over to the table.

“Sorry.” Phil manages, slumped awkwardly in his chair.

“Oh, hey man, no. Don’t be sorry.” Clint helps him get cleaned up, just in time for the arrival of the paramedics.

Phil watches in awe as the beefiest, blondest man he has ever seen enters the bar. Phil is pretty sure he’s slipped out of reality and into a porno because the last time he checked, real EMTs are not supposed to look like underwear models. The man’s partner, smaller but no less sinfully attractive, grins brightly as he steps around Blonde Beefcake.

“you know, Barton. If you missed us, you could have just said. No need to concuss some poor guy just to get us to come say ‘hi’” The smaller man says.

“Hilarious, Bucky, really.” Clint says, rolling his eyes, “Just help my guy here.”

Phil giggles. “I’m your guy!”

 

3.

Phil is back at work by Wednesday. He feels fine, but Nick is adamant that he leave at 5, just like everyone else. If Phil had assumed that leaving earlier in the evening would ensure his safety on the way home, he would have been mistaken.

Phil makes it to the bar without any calamity; however, just as he’s about to slip past the door and breathe a sigh of relief, he’s slammed into by a wall of boxes. He grabs a conveniently placed handle on one of the boxes as he’s falling and uses it to right himself, which unbalances the person holding the boxes and all four tumble to the ground in a cacophony of breaking glass. Phil’s shoes, and his trousers up to the knee are soaked in a flood of what smells like beer. He promptly slips in the puddle, attempting to jump out of the way of the splash, and falls on his ass on the sidewalk. Again.

The embarrassment takes up enough of his brain power for it to take him a second to realize that he’s gotten several pieces of glass stuck in his hand where it had slammed into the concrete in an attempt to break his fall.

“Are you _shitting_ me?”

Phil is caught off guard by the yell and sits, blinking, in the puddle of beer as a very familiar man stands, dripping in front of the door to the bar.

“I can pay for that.” Phil says, eventually, once his brain is back online.

“Oh Shit, it’s you.” Clint says, eyes widening as he takes in Phil’s position, “Fuck man. I swear I’m not doing this on purpose.”

Clint offers him a hand up, and Phil is once again mildly distracted by the surge of muscle-under-skin as Clint pulls. It’s only then that Clint realizes that Phil’s hand is bleeding sluggishly by his side.

“Shit.” He says again, “Fuck. Okay, let me see.”

Phil dutifully holds out his hand to Clint, who takes it in a surprisingly gentle hold and examines it up close.

“Will I need another ambulance?” Phil asks, only half joking.

“Nah, I can take care of this one myself. Come on inside.”

Phil follows Clint back into the bar, which Phil is fairly certain is cursed, at this point, and allows Clint to sit him down on a stool at the bar. Clint ducks behind the bar and pops back up with a first aid kit in hand. He pulls on a pair of blue latex gloves, and takes Phil’s hand in his own again.

“This is going to feel like shit.” Clint tells Phil. Phil nods, and steels himself for the pain as Clint carefully pulls the visible shards of glass out of Phil’s hand.

“You’ve done this before?” Phil asks, more to fill the awkward silence that’s fallen over them both.

“I work in a bar.” Clint laughs, “broken glass is an occupational hazard. Not to mention I’m training to be an EMT.”

Which explains Clint’s familiarity with the EMTs who had come to take care of Phil last week. Phil nods as Clint rinses Phil’s hand with a squirt bottle of saline.

“I think we’ve got all the glass out. It doesn’t look too bad, so I’ll just patch you up and let you go.” Clint says, patting Phil’s hand dry with a 4x4 before wrapping it gently in a bandage. “If that bleeds through just toss another bandage on top for now, and change it out in the morning.”

“Thanks.” Phil says, offering up a shy smile.

“Any time.” Clint says, and even though Phil is pretty sure it’s just a throw-away statement, a place holder for “you’re welcome” or “no problem”, he can’t help but take it to heart.

 

4.

It takes a surprising amount of effort to convince Phil’s coworkers that he doesn’t need an escort on his way home. In fact, Jasper is already talking himself through an alternate route home so that he can make sure Phil makes it back to his apartment in one piece when Phil finally huffs out an exasperated breath and promises that he’ll avoid the bar.

“I’ll get off the subway at the next stop and walk back instead.” Phil says, rolling his eyes, “Happy?”

His coworkers seem wary, but they let him go. Phil really does get off the subway a stop later, working out his alternate route on a map on his phone. In hindsight, this is where he had gone wrong. Just as he’s exiting the station, nose buried in his phone, trying to read the tiny print on the map, he’s slammed into by a solid wall of muscle and what seems like every sheet of paper in New York.

“God Fucking Dammit!” Clint yells, making an aborted attempt to stand while he simultaneously tries to collect his papers, and ends up falling back on his ass, and crumpling the three sheets he had managed to grab in his fist.

Phil is already on his hands and knees, carefully collecting the papers within reach and stacking them tidily in a pile in front of him.

“Are you alright?” Phil asks, fighting a smile at the role reversal.

“Honestly?” Clint asks, running a harried hand through his already-messy hair. He looks wild, maybe even crazed and, if Phil is being entirely honest, hot as sin.

“I’ll take that as a ‘no’” Phil says, handing over the stack of papers he’s collected.

“Sorry.” Clint says, “Just a rough day. And I’m so, _so_ late right now.” He adds the last as he checks his watch, wincing.

“I’ll let you get going, then.” Phil says with a smile, offering Clint a hand up.

“Honestly, it’s probably not even worth it at this point.” Clint says, taking Phil’s hand and barely using it to surge into a standing position. “Class started an hour ago, and it takes at least an hour to get there from here. May as well not bother with it today. I’ll get the notes from Thor.”

Clint shrugs awkwardly, then seems to realize that he’s still holding Phil’s hand. He drops it like it’s bitten him, and rubs his palm almost subconsciously on his thigh.

“Are you heading back to the bar, then?” Phil asks, assuming that’s where Clint is coming from given the area.

“Actually, I figured I’d head home,” Clint answers, jerking a thumb over his shoulder, I’ve got a paper due tomorrow morning so I should get cracking.”

“Right.” Phil says, “Well if you’re headed my way I’ll walk with you. My coworkers are convinced I need an escort to keep from getting hurt on my way home anyway.”

“Could have used one today, looks like.” Clint says, grinning and turning on his heel, starting down the block.

Phil falls into step and continues the conversation easily, asking about Clint’s paper, and talking about his job until Clint cuts him off.

“This is me.” He says, slowing to a stop in front of the building next to Phil’s.

“No shit.” Clint says, when Phil points this out. “I’d invite you up,” he continues, “but it’s a total disaster right now, and I’ll just be studying the whole time anyway.”

Phil starts to answer, to say that it’s no problem, that he totally understands, but Clint interrupts him again.

“Shit, dude, I don’t even know your name!”

“Phil.” Phil says, not fighting the smile this time.

“Right. Well, see you around, Phil.”

 

5.

It’s been another stunningly long day, but Phil is finally on his way home. He contemplates avoiding the bar but for one, that really hadn’t helped the last time he’d tried it. And for another, Phil finds that he’s hoping to see Clint. Despite the fact that all of their interactions thus far have involved Phil ending up flat on his ass (literally), he has to admit, having Clint take care of him afterwards is surprisingly nice. It doesn’t hurt that Clint is wickedly hot.

Phil smiles at himself and shakes his head as he steps off the subway, following an already-drunk man up towards the street. It’s been years since Phil has fallen this hard for a man, and it’s made all the more strange by the thoroughly unromantic way he keeps meeting Clint. Still, the heart wants what the heart wants, not to mention the libido, and Phil can feel both perking up as he nears the bar.

Phil keeps his eyes peeled, waiting for any fast movements in his direction, but nothing comes, and he lets his guard down enough to casually look around the bar. Which is when he sees Clint down an alleyway to the side. He’s about to call out, perhaps have a conversation that doesn’t revolve around whether or not one or both of them is injured, but something stops him cold. Clint is with someone.

She’s a gorgeous woman, even Phil can see that. Her bright blonde curls fall over one shoulder, and her curvaceous body is pressed tightly to Clint’s one hand clenched in his hair, the other running up and down the small of his back. Clint has both his hands on her ass, his tongue down her throat, and Phil can feel his heart breaking, like a physical blow to the chest. Clint pushes the woman back against the wall of the alley, groaning as he pulls away from her mouth and shoots her a roguish grin.

“Care to take this somewhere more comfortable?” Clint asks, voice low and rough, and if Phil hadn’t already been rooted to the spot, that would have done it.

The woman giggles, and nods, allowing Clint to take her by the wrist and drag her out of the alley. He’s walking backwards, and Phil realizes too late that he’ll have to move if he doesn’t want to be flattened. Clint walks straight into him, and trips on Phil’s leg, taking both of them to the ground, and tugging the woman after. She lands on top of Clint, who lands on top of Phil, and Phil feels the air knocked out of his lungs in an uncontrollable gust, leaving him struggling to inhale.

Clint laughs, lifting the woman off of him and setting her effortlessly to the side, and Phil doesn’t watch his arms this time only because Clint is still on top of him and, while Phil’s gotten his breathing back under control, having Clint pressing him into the sidewalk is still too much to handle.

Clint flips over, trapping Phil to the pavement in a cage of his arms, hard body pressing gently against Phil’s. Clint’s eyes are lined in smudged black liner, and his lips are red, and kiss-swollen and Phil has to turn his head to the side, has to force himself to think of something, anything but the way Clint’s tight black t-shirt clings to his biceps as they flex. Clint is every wet dream Phil has had since he was fourteen and beating off to the men’s underwear section of the Sears catalogue, but Phil is a grown-ass man, and there is no way he’s going to get hard lying on a grungy New York sidewalk.

Until Clint licks his lips and breathes Phil’s name, and he sounds completely _wrecked_ , and Phil is only human.

“Clint?” and that’s when Phil remembers that Clint looks so thoroughly debauched because he had been making out with a gorgeous blonde in an alley. A gorgeous blonde who is most certainly not Phil.

“Sorry, babe.” Clint says, levering himself off of Phil and turning to grin at the blonde. Clint slings an arm around her shoulders, pulls her in for another bruising kiss, and then turns back to Phil.

“Need a hand?” Clint asks.

Phil, not trusting his voice right now, just shakes his head. The last thing he needs is more physical contact with the most gorgeous, and apparently unattainable man he’s ever met.

Clint’s smile is devastatingly attractive as he nods at Phil, then slips his arm around the blonde’s waist and steers her down the block, presumably to Clint’s apartment.

Phil spends more time than he would like to admit sitting on the sidewalk outside the bar, getting his breathing, and his emotions, under control.

 

INTERLUDE

“Bobbi?” Natasha asks, as close to outraged as she ever gets.

“I didn’t say it was _smart_!” Clint replies, letting his head fall heavily against the bar, “I just said that it happened.”

“Didn’t you sign the papers last week?” Natasha asks.

“One for the road…?” Clint replies weakly.

“You are the biggest idiot of all time, you know that?”

“You don’t know the half of it.” Clint moans, accepting the tumbler of vodka Natasha slides down the bar to him.

“It gets _worse_ than sleeping with your ex-wife the day you sign the divorce papers?”

“I ran into Phil while I was taking Bobbi home.”

“Literally or figuratively?” Natasha asks, smirking.

“What do you think?”

“Literally? What, are you magnetized or something?”

Clint shrugs, as though not discounting the possibility and drains the double shot in one go.

“Was he alright?” Natasha asks, recalling the previous serious injuries Clint had caused in Phil.

“Sure, physically.” Clint answers. “He looked like I’d sucker punched him, though.”

“Well sure.” Natasha says, rolling her eyes, “He’s into you.”

“Come on, Tash. I’m already feeling bad enough.”

“No, I’m serious.” She persists. “He was probably just dealing with the idea that you’re straight.”

“But I’m not straight.” Clint says, confusion written across his face.

“You know that, and I know that, but any guy seeing you with Bobbi is going to think you are.” Natasha explains, slowly, patiently, as though to a child.

Clint groans and drops his head into his hands. He’s pretty sure he’s not usually this much of a fuck-up. Natasha’s laugh when he says this suggests otherwise.

 

+1.

Phil is at a farmers’ market, of all places, when the inevitable finally happens, and he runs into Clint.

“Phil!” Clint calls, from the other side of a mountain of zucchini, and Phil is facing towards Clint so there’s really no way he can pretend he didn’t notice.

“Hello, Mr. Barton.” If Phil can keep this civil, but impersonal, he can make it out in one piece. Probably.

Phil watches Clint’s face fall from a surprised grin to confused hurt in a matter of seconds. He may hate himself a little bit for having caused that.

“Haven’t seen you in a while.” Clint says, voice small but just a touch hopeful.

“I’ve, uh… I’ve been busy.” Phil says, putting real effort into not wincing at how weak that sounds.

“I’m not straight!” Clint blurts into the ensuing silence, attracting the startled gaze of both the zucchini salesman and a young couple walking past.

“I mean, uh…” Clint continues, the tips of his ears turning a bright pink, “You saw me with Bobbi so I thought you might… that maybe you thought I was straight? But… I’m not.” He finishes lamely, scrubbing at the back of his neck with one hand.

“Okay…” Phil says carefully, because he’s pretty sure he shouldn’t be letting this give him hope. He’s pretty sure he should just turn and walk away. He doesn’t.

“I just… um…” and Clint has always been so much more eloquent than this that Phil sticks around half to see if maybe Clint is having a stroke of some sort, “Do you want to get a coffee with me?”

Clint asks so quickly that it takes Phil a few seconds to parse out what he’s asked. It takes Phil another few seconds to realize what Clint means. He takes another few seconds to respond, waging an internal battle between the part of him that wants to stay hurt, and wallow in self-pity, and the part of him that wants to climb Clint like a tree.

“Yes.” Phil finally says, giving a small smile in return for Clint’s bright grin.

“Really?” Clint asks, as though he’s not quite sure what Phil said, “Okay. Okay, great! Is, uh… is now okay?”

Phil blinks in surprise, “Sure. Yeah now is great.”

Coffee turns into dinner, turns into drinks and would have turned into the kind of night that Phil has spent far too long without, but Clint has class in the morning, and Phil has work and they both need actual sleep, and not the few hours they would get once they were both sated.

The kiss at the door of Clint’s building is filthy, full of tongue and grabbing hands and Phil breaks it panting. Clint is flushed from the tips of his ears and down under the collar of his t-shirt, and Phil has to physically pull himself away to keep from liking a stripe up Clint’s neck. There will be plenty of time for that later.


End file.
